


Slow Life

by Lunarspire



Category: Supernatural
Genre: AU, Fanfiction, Gay, LGBT, M/M, Romance, Similar AU, bxb - Freeform, first fic on this website
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-17
Updated: 2019-03-17
Packaged: 2019-11-21 09:40:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,227
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18140540
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lunarspire/pseuds/Lunarspire
Summary: Dean Winchester doesn't believe in ghosts, or anything strange for that matter.He believes in the Dallas Cowboys, his little brother’s ambition, and wants to believe that sweet, old Mrs. Taylor will finally pay him on time for fixing her fender again.This is changed, even if grudgingly, when a supposed meteor comes down into a nearby field when Dean is hunting dinner. The meteor was not what he expected. It was astonishing, but instead of an alien spacecraft wreck in the crater, there was a well-dressed man, beaten and bloody.After Castiel comes to, he explains his species to Dean, and the political anarchy that was currently surging in Heaven. Well, not anymore, since the gates were shut and his kind, expelled.Dean follows Castiel on his journey to find his fellow brothers and sister, and picks up some new tricks on the supernatural along the way.





	1. Chapter One

Dean fumbled through the pack of cigarettes. He didn’t fumble for long, as his calloused yet trained fingers now clenched a coffin nail, pulling it out with a screech of the paper box, which he soon stuffed into the front pocket of his leather jacket. The same jacket that was once his father’s, but now perpetually held the cling of bitter nicotine and Coors. Not like it didn’t before it was his, though. It was worn too. Over the years, its begun to break at the wave and crease of his shoulders, which didn’t help its case to be an acceptable wardrobe. Though here, acceptable was whatever was closest that morning. Flannel, dirtied jeans, and liquor-stained lips is what Dean usually clad himself in. With their work, it would be damn stupid to dress up.

 

As he lounged lazily on the front of his latest fix, a truck that got the ass-end of a wreck, he extended his arm to push up the sleeve, then brought his hand inwards to flick his lighter all within one swift movement, and lit his cigarette. He scanned over the salvage, subtly recognizing the parts that had been there since he was in his late teens. The metal and frames had stacked since then, and now it’s made a maze with high, stalking walls. He guessed they’d just stay there forever if no one needed them. With the exposure to weather and sun, he also guessed that no one would want them, either. It was almost dark; the sunset glistened on the windshields back at him. Though Dean had already surpassed his shift by about three hours. His coworkers, Ash and Corbett, shot for the hills at four and didn’t look back. Ash was probably romancing women at the dimly lit Roadhouse. Corbett was probably. . . Dean honestly had no clue what that weird fella could possibly get up to in his free time. He grinned around the stick at that thought.

 

He took another drag, slow and sweet, moving his entire abdomen with its pull. The ragtag from Bobby’s house was the only sound amongst the buzzing of the light in the makeshift garage. That and the crickets that sung with the evening dew. Dean enjoyed this part. Everything winding down, relaxing, and with that his achy bones would relax too, content with his work for the day. It was dangerously introspective, as Dean had made it his purpose to appear as stoic as possible. He thought it’d help him, too, since his past was anything but easy considering--

 

'Nah.'

 

The man straightened up, adjusting his infamous jacket and tossing the cigarette butt to the gravels. Every step crunched when he zig-zagged between his belongings, gathering them and mentally planning his return tomorrow with that same still face he had at work. He walked down towards his car, which shined with a fresh coat of wax, and the amber light that poured from Bobby’s house. The light hit his face as he paused in his crunchy tracks, giving the couple and their daughter, Jo, a splayed hand of departure. Bobby was the only one who noticed, and gave him a nod with such a plethora of emotion in his grey eyes. Maybe Ellen just said something funny. Seemed so, as the girls were wiping their eyes with a bright smile. Dean smiled back, even if he didn’t know what was so funny.

 

The man loaded in his ‘67 Impala, sliding his lunchbox, coat, and cellphone into the passenger seat. It started with the purr of a lioness, as Dean would put it, and trudged through the gravel like he had just a few moments ago.

 

***

 

The woods around his cabin were soaked in teal light from the late evening. It was still visible when Dean pulled into his driveway, Baby’s tires left a bed of gravel for another. Dean liked to take her out on his days off, let her rubber get pure asphalt. Sometimes he would just take the trash out, or go to his favorite bar to see his favorite waitress, Amanda, or he’d go see his little brother to rip him out of his studies which rarely worked, anyways. Other times, he would just drive.

 

Drive nowhere, anywhere. Pick a direction and go. Dean’s always been good at improvising like that.

 

When he started doing that, he first traveled all over Kansas like a bee on its honeycomb. It was familiar. Dean recognized street names and rivers he passed over when he, Sam, and John traveled a lot. Half these days on the road were unsolicited, but the other half was their father genuinely attempting to connect with his boys. It was a bittersweet memory, and that was that. Then, after he’d pass over every bridge and four-way stop, Dean would make way to Northwest Missouri. The sights were the least of his worries, since he did most of his driving in the dead of night, it was hard to see anything other than the yellow and white lines whisking ahead repetitively. They followed a rhythm with his chosen speed, which was normally ten to fifteen above the limit, and it was almost therapeutic to watch them disappear one-by-one underneath the hood of his car.

 

One time he stayed in St. Louis, though, and was able to sight-see the next day with. . . What was her name? Dean couldn’t remember. He did remember her moves, though.

 

When Missouri was tapped, Dean moved on to Southern Nebraska. It was similar to his home state; dun, grassy fields with low hills, occasional locus of dense forest, brown rivers and small towns, one after the other. He hadn’t made it to the capital, Lincoln, yet but planned on it. Tonight could be one of those nights-- he could make it. It wasn’t even dark out yet and he wasn’t tired. But he had other plans. It involved his Weatherby Vanguard rifle, camouflage wardrobe, and lots and lots of deer piss.

 

***

 

Night had fallen by the time Dean had settled.

The dark blind drooped, the fake foliage cascaded down its visibility slit. Viewing from the outside, it would be an eerie sight, as a surly man perched inside, his bright green eyes only visible if you looked hard enough. It was like looking in the pet store bin for the spider, looking and looking until you finally realize it’s been staring back this whole time, pressed up against the glass with its predatory presence.

 

Dean’s eyes culled the trees at level.

 

Hunting required attention in many different forms.

 

For one, attention to silence. Silence was tactical; it allowed the animals to form around his perch, melding around its bulk with conceit, thinking it was safe-- their dulls minds couldn’t comprehend the difference. They could with scent, however, but Dean had doused himself in Hunter’s Edge, and the rest of his cover with urine. It was tactical too. The aroma called all the horny bucks over. But a hitched breath or stomach growl could make his presence known, so like all other hunters he knew, he trained himself to not grow weary of the quiet.

 

Another was patience, and pure attention with patience. Dean couldn’t drift off in his own thoughts or play a game on his iPhone. The hunt required his eyes to constantly scour the tree line and the field past that. This caused his eyes to adjust, and frankly he was unstoppable at this point. No creature could go undetected. It couldn’t sneak through the dead leaves, because Dean has his ears on, and they listened back further into the woods with attentiveness.

 

Dean could sit here forever.

 

It was close to midnight. Dean knew despite never checking his watch. He looked up to the sky, and could tell from the translucent summer leaves that the moon hung almost directly above, big and bright. Its light washed over his rifle, giving it a shine that was not there before, so Dean buried it beneath his legs once again. The light soaked everything, really. The black tarp, the glistening dew, the forest floor, but it was dulled when it reached the ground; therefore it was harder to notice the differences, to see if it was an animal or just the breeze. The glaze was harsh on his eyes. After a while of squinting, Dean decided to pack up his equipment and go home. Yeah, he could sit out here forever, but not if there wasn’t any hope of bringing back dinner.

 

Then, a rustle.

 

It was subtle but enough for Dean to instantaneously plop his ass back down, unsheathe his gun from its case, and regulate his breathing again. He rested it upon the bottom frame of his blind, this time disregarding its perpetual shine, keeping his first finger rested on the trigger guard. His green eyes shot back and forth, side to side, but mainly on the direction of the noise which was on his left, about 8 o'clock. He licked his lips, anticipating antlers to slice the darkness.

 

Dean didn’t hear anything for three solid minutes, but this didn’t cause him to waver his focus or pack up again. Patience, he sighed, slow, he breathed in, quiet.

 

The bellowing blast above made him jumped like a cat in water, his eyes wide and chest heaving with surprise. What the hell?

 

After initial boom trailed into the sound of swirling air like an airplane was passing over, the hunter craned his head out of the blind slit to inspect the sky, to see if a rift had been opened or the world was ending. He saw stars, endless amounts of scattered stars, which Dean took comforting refuge in for the time being, satisfied that lava was not pouring from the heavens.

 

Yet.

 

The stars twinkled and pulsed, per usual. Though you couldn’t get a view like this in the city, light pollination or whatever they called it. Dean was sat in a feeding plot of his own, where the trees were cleared out and corn pieces were thrown around to attract the deer to stand still and feed. The blank spot was hardly a perfect circle, but t was like he held out a speckled marble, right where the trees lined up, and it illuminated with such mystical power.

 

The airplane still hadn’t passed.

 

In fact, the constant sound was growing louder. Dean took another look, and there it was. A great ball of fire. The man grinned softly at the reference, but that quickly turned to panic and it grew closer. 'A meteor', he questioned mentally, still residing in his state of silence. 'An asteroid? What was the fucking difference? Oh, maybe an alien ship. That’d be cool.'

 

Dean waited in his blind, gripped the muzzle of his rifle tightly enough to make his knuckles pale. The thought was there, amongst all the panic-ensued jokes and references.

 

'This might kill me.'

 

***

 

The hunter waited after it crashed-- he didn’t just go in, guns blazing. He figured helicopters would arrive soon, maybe the news channel vans would just flock around the supposed crater, or maybe the FBI would shoo everyone away and pack whatever it was into a private jet and take it away to the labs. He waited, and waited, and waited but no one came. Dean kept rustling, carelessly now, in his blind tent, breathing heavily while running obsessive hands through his clipped hair. He waited longer, but soon couldn't take it. He’d have to be his own FBI agent tonight.

 

The ruts of the woods made his four-wheeler bounce and jolt, jerking his hips in all kind of directions as he made way to the crash site. Dean tried getting a look of the soaring comet from his post, but his eyes could not adjust to the searing light fast enough. All he got was a glance, and he could have sworn the thing had arms and legs. He laughed, nervously, at himself for admitting it. His first thought, of course, was an ejected alien. But it didn’t look like the little green men Dean knew, and what sort of alien would crash with such force and fire? Could anything remotely alive do that? He wondered until his wheels rolled upon the wheat grass of the field. Now, he moved slowly, even though his vehicle roared amongst the eerie silence. The impact sound probably scared all the animals in a five-mile radius scatter in fear. Except Dean, of course.

 

Dean was right, it was a crater, but it did not simmer with radioactive minerals or goop like expected. It was burning at the edges and the smoke no longer came in whiffs, but instead every quick pulse of his chest inhaled more and more. Dean abandoned his ride, clicking it off and the only sound that remained was the cracking of slow spreading fire around the crater edges. The man approached cautiously, his rifle pointed downwards as he crouched, attempting to be stealthy in case there was danger, and he needed to leave without being noticed by whatever-it-was in the sunken ground.

 

The smoke began to dissipate with the humid summer breeze. It rolled forwards, away from Dean when he peeked over its edge.

 

“Oh, my God. . .”

 

In an instance, the Winchester slid down the crater’s slope and fell to his knees beside the man.

 

Dean looked down to him, his eyes widened and mouth agape as if he had done this himself. His hands lingered above, caressing him from a distance. That distance was thick, filled to the brim with shock, fear, and most of all: Confusion. “H-How did. . .” the man babbled. It wasn’t long however, until Dean had his ear pressed against his chest, his hands resting on either side, digging into the fresh dirt.

 

'He’s alive.'

 

Dean looked back up to the man’s face, which was littered with superficial scratches surroundings his nose, lips, and eyes. Those eyes which haven’t opened yet. Dean inspected his body, checking for twisted or broken limbs but found none, and only saw the fairly neat beige trench coat that draped his shoulders, dress pants, sensible shoes, (once) white shirt and blue tie that was splayed to the side. He was bleeding, though, through the arms of his coat and Dean assumed his legs too, but he couldn’t tell from their black color. The mechanic stood, rubbing his face with disbelief, backing up and continuing to pace. His eyes searched the ground for nothing in particular, but rather in consideration.

 

'Yeah. Yeah, that’ll be fine.'

 

Dean whisked, crawling out of the crater with determination, and coming back with the sharp purr of his four-wheeler.


	2. Chapter Two

The night grew heavy; wisps of smoke from the odd fires trailed with the occasional Norther winds. Dean planted his hunting boots in the freshly turned-up soil, melting into it with his panicked pacing. He rubbed his forearms with a gloved hand due to the chill as the night continued to grow more bitter. It obviously wasn’t waiting for anyone, especially Castiel, who was still splayed on the crater floor, bloodied and unconscious. Dean would occasionally glance down to see if he was still breathing with good intentions, but also hoped when looking back, the well-dressed man would be gone and he would just be hallucinating or having a bad dream. Three blinks and a rough pinch later, Dean knew that it wasn’t going to happen. Despite having already brought his ride, Dean tried to deny that this bruised man was his problem, and never would be if the hunter just hopped back onto the leather seat and headed home.

 

What a lie that was. He knew it, too.

 

Dean walked towards the body hastily, crouching down to gather him in his toned arms. He locked his left arm under his knees, and his right poked at the man’s midsection, shuffling and wedging its way to snake around the firm chest. Dean searched his length when he pushed a bit, attempting to lift him off the ground. When the body suddenly tensed, Dean snapped his head up and was met with teal-glowing eyes staring back at him in confusion. The hunter went to retrieve his arms, but was stopped by a stout hand forcefully gripping his shoulder. Dean yelped as the skin on his shoulder sizzled, and before he could pry away, the light in the man’s eyes dissipated and fluttered, before finally closing as his body went limp once again. His black-haired head dropped backwards, lifeless, exposing his freshly shaven but chiseled chin.

 

Dean winced, breathing in heavily through his teeth with a wrenched, pained expression. He looked to his left shoulder. The fabric of his hunting jumper was melted, and continued to burn sharply like paper with pulsating hues of blue, all in the shape of this mystery man’s palm and fingers.

 

“Ah. . .” Dean groaned, twisting his fingers into the fabric of the trench coat.

 

The hunter rolled his neck and arms, giving a quick, yet gentle flick of his shoulders before prodding at the man once more, testing pressure (and luck) at both parts of his body. Dean watched but from farther back than before by a couple of inches, checking the man’s jawline and neck, waiting for it to tense again. His head swayed from side-to-side from Dean’s movements, showing no innate sign of consciousness. It seemed like the hunter’s luck was in check, as the man stayed asleep as Dean carried him to the running ATV. Dean craned his chest over Castiel as he lowered him onto the rack, the exhaust warmed his legs as he curled away the man’s in a bridal position so his risk of knocking a tree would be reduce. He tucked his feet behind a slot in the metal, and searched near his craned head for the bungee hooks that were normally meant for lugging deer. He clipped the cords at his ankles and chest, not wanting to put them in usual order; especially if there was someone else lurking in the woods at this time of night.

 

***

 

Looming above his own bed felt surreal; not only because he wasn’t face down in it at this ungodly hour, but because a bruised and broken stranger did instead.

 

Well, not face down. Dean had charged into his cabin with the stranger in his arms and instantaneously brought him to the back bedroom where he was now, laying him down facing up onto the quilt. At first Dean had worried about the quilt itself, as it was handmade by his late mother, but felt shameful after realizing that a man could be dying right in front of him, and he’d be worried about the damn comforter.

 

The man needed to be, one, inspected for injuries under the light, and two, bandaged for the superficial ones he obviously had. Sheepishly, Dean, started at his muddy shoes, untying them and sliding them off gently as to not awaken him or press something painful. He followed the same manner while unbuckling his belt, while a subtle blush passed over his cheeks. Subtle, but irritating nonetheless. Dean just hoped the man wouldn’t wake up right now. 

 

Dean remembered the gauze, like a bright light bulb, stuffed under his bathroom sink from his last injury at the salvage yard. Hauling ass to and from the bandages, he grimaced mentally at the lingering memory of the sensation of slicing his arm on that misplaced piece of scrap metal, and how the blood dropped onto the gravel as it spread across his skin. He yelled for Corbett, since the older man, Ash, called out sick that morning. Corbett had only been their apprentice for three days too, and he had already seen inside of Dean. Like, literally. Then, he recalled having to wrap the deep wound himself every morning and evening for two weeks, at least. Dean couldn’t remember exactly how long the cut had stayed needy like that. It came in handy, though, as he now had the general knowledge of how to handle things like that. He knew how from a much darker memory, but that was faint and he would rather not recall it, anyways.

 

He unwound the athletic bandage, its wrinkly tail trailing down to the desired length on the mattress, next to the few layers of gauze that was actually left. The wounds were dark and deep compared to the pale envelope it cut in to, but Dean did not spot any bone peeking out and he was thankful for that. He didn’t have to drive him to a hospital. Oh, the mechanic had thought about it, and even considered it until the man's ID fell out of his trench coat while Dean was tossing it in the wash. It nearly slid under the dryer, so Dean took a knee and picked it up, splaying it open informal curiosity. 'Hell', he thought. 'Just a name would tell me something.'

 

Yeah, he’d tell the doctors the guy fell out of the sky, and then get tossed in a loony bin to wait trial for the disappearance of Jimmy Novak. 

 

That’s what his ID said, at least. Dean shamelessly scoured through the rest of the wallet’s contents. Jimmy was from Pontiac, Illinois, thirty-seven years old, patron to a local honey farm, and had a wife and young daughter. Dean dug a little further, and found a silver cross amulet stuffed in the wallet’s nether, its corner’s varnish rubbed off due to age, he assumed. Dean quickly dropped it back in. The man stood up, his back straight as a board, holding the leather piece with one hand and rubbing his temples with the other. He wondered what he had gotten himself into, but this was not the worst of Jimmy’s situation.

 

***

 

Alice blue morning light seeped in through the kitchen window, reflecting off the veneer wooden table where weary Dean and his computer sat. The swaying, green trees outside blocked the pink band that wound itself around the horizon, thick but pastel in its value compared to the gradually fading darkness to the northwest.

 

Dean shut his eyes while he took a long swig of his stout. They ached, as did his temples, which he rubbed with his condensation-slathered fingers after setting the can back down. After tending to the wounds of Jimmy and himself, he descended into sleep clothes but got none of it, tossing and turning on the couch for at least an hour. His burnt shoulder nagged him too much, and when he’d found out that the man in his bedroom had been missing for half a year, sleep was a distant desire. So, he finished the laundry, watched the news in hopes of seeing reports about the meteor (there was none, to Dean’s surprise), and played solo games of darts when his thoughts got too jumbled.

 

Jimmy worked for a radio station in Pontiac. He didn’t actually talk on the air but the page read that he sold ad time, or something else Dean was not familiar with. His wife, Amelia, said in the report that the week before his disappearance, Jimmy went stark mad and claimed that he spoke to an angel, who asked something of him to prove his devotion. Amelia went on to say that she didn’t understand half of what Jimmy was saying, that it was all in bits and pieces, but to Dean’s subjective, the entire situation was shady. He figured she was lying by the news tape.

 

The man crawled out of his chair and tossed the empty can into the recycle with a resonating ring of tin. He reached out for the fridge but was stopped by a mordant sound coming from the back bedroom. At first, he’d forgotten the man in captivity, but once it clicked and he recognized that it was a cough instead of a burglar dropping in through the narrow window, he paced quickly across the hardwood to the bedroom. The man stepped through the open doorway impulsively, as the action was practically ingrained into his routine. It was too late when he realized, and he now shifted on his feet at the end of his bed, observant but awkward.

 

“Uh, heya’, man. How are you, uh. . . How’re ya’ holding’ up? You alright?” Dean inquired with panicked eyes, his eyebrows knit in concern. He at least attempted to speak gently, though. 

 

Jimmy was sat up and leaned against the headboard, though his clean clothes still remained folded and untouched on a nearby chair. The man squinted his murky blue eyes, first inspecting his surroundings with confusion, then to Dean where his expression softened.

 

“I’m. . . Fine.” Jimmy tried to move again, but winced loudly instead.

 

Dean stepped forwards and around, his hands splayed out in front of him. “Hey, hey, hey-- Take it easy.” He sat on the edge of the bed.

 

“Who are you? Where. . . am I?”

“Who am I?” Dean scoffed, “More like who the hell are you? Buddy, you come barreling outta the friggin’ sky and walk away with a couple of cuts and bruises.” Well, he hasn’t walked away yet, Dean thought.

 

Jimmy was still searching the room with concerned eyes, but they softened again, like he finally remember the name of a song that had been stuck in his head all day. “Yes, that’s right,” he spoke after a moment. “Was there anyone else with me?”

 

“Nah, just you.” Dean twisted his body so he could get the wallet out of his back pocket. He splayed it open, offering it to the man. “Jimmy, right?”

 

“No, Castiel. I’m an angel of the Lord.”

 

The mechanic waited for Jimmy to chuckle, or show any kind of emotion, but was met with silence that he broke with his own discrediting laugh. The black-haired man craned his head to the side like a begging dog with a genuinely confused look as Dean’s voice hiccuped with cheer.

 

“What is so funny?”

 

His laughter trailed off. 'Oh.' “You're serious?”

 

“Yes, of course. You are sure no one else was with me?” Castiel attempted to move again, this time getting his leg to bend and dangle off the mattress. He would have gotten both if Dean didn't press a hand to his shoulder, forcing him back into the pillows.

 

“Woah, woah, buddy. Let's just take it easy, yeah? You hungry, thirsty?”

 

Castiel thought. “I. . . Don't know.”

 

“Alright, well, put some clothes on. I'll make something.”

 

***

 

Dean had the house phone crunched in between his ear and unscathed shoulder as he talked to Bobby, scooting around sizzling corn beef hash while explaining his fake predicament. He had switched his lounge clothes for denim jeans and a beige flannel, the sleeves being rolled up to his elbows and draping over a tight, black t-shirt. A shower he was lacking, though, as his brunette hair still stuck out in all directions.

 

“Listen, Bobby, I told you. I drank last night and got a cold over my hangover. Seriously, I'll be back in no time.”

 

“Boy, you ain't never whined about a hangover before.”

 

“Yeah well, this one's different-- alright?” Dean glanced over to his couch where the alleged angel sat rigid, palms resting on his knees, and his face screwed in confusion at the t.v. while Dr. Sexy reruns played.

 

“You got that Honda Ridgeline to fix up! I can't just throw Corbett on it. Son would probably cost me more than its worth.”

 

“Arnold shoulda’ just bought a Chevy and me or Corbett wouldn't have to deal with the damn thing,” Dean retaliated seriously, but the undertone of humor could not be missed. 

 

“Yeah, yeah. Well, let me know when you're coming back.” Dean clicked off the call, roughly dropping the plastic back into its holder on the fridge with a sharp clunk. He scraped the rest of the fry into his own bowl, and plunged a fork into both after shocking the pan with cold water. It sizzled loudly as he ran a swift hand through the bellowing steam before grabbing the bowls and carrying them to his couch, which was only a few long strides away in the tight quarters. 

 

"Here," Dean extended the bowl to Castiel. He stared up at Dean with sorrowful eyes. "You good?" He continued.

 

"Y-Yes. Thank you for your hospitality," Cas looked down to the bowl's contents, pausing for a moment, and looking back to the chef.

 

"Dean-- uh, Dean Winchester." Dean was leaned forwards with his elbows resting on his kneecaps, shoveling his hash but keeping his eyes glued to the other man. "You said your name was Castiel?"

 

"Yes."

 

"Is that a nickname or somethin'?"

 

"No. That is my given name. Jimmy is. . ." Cas trailed off, his eyebrows knit in concern, and maybe even regret. Dean took this opportunity to chew a forkful. "Jimmy asked for this. He is a devout man-- was. His soul resides in Heaven. I am merely using his vessel."

 

Dean almost choked, hacking for a short moment. "A vessel? You're still on this angel thing? Musta' banged your head pretty bad." He shook his head, smiling softly as coverage. Truly, he knew that Castiel was different-- not human, even. His speech, his minuscule wounds, and his confusion. It was like he was a time traveler or, you know, an angel. Dean didn't want to believe that though. In consideration with his fluid timeline of struggles in life, religion or even hope hardly came easy. 

 

"Why do you insist that I am lying?"

 

"Because," his tone deepened, modulating on intention of seriousness. "If angels existed, why would they let the bad shit run rampant down here? And if they do, they're dicks for letting it happen." 

 

"That isn't true, Dean. Our orders rely on fate and natural selection. For some of my brothers and sisters, this is the first time they've walked the Earth in two-thousand years," Castiel replied gravely, his eyes searching the coffee table for nothing in particular. "It isn't likely any of them perched upon your shoulders during that time."

 

Shoulders. The pain in Dean's left pulsed, a reminder that if it was not angelic, it was certainly inhuman. He stayed stoic, deep in thought for longer than expected. Maybe the guy was telling the truth, Dean considered, but it remained extremely foreign on his thoughts. 

 

'Yeah, because it is foreign, dumb ass.'

 

"So," Dean set the ceramic down on the table, turning his body to face Castiel, who still hadn't eaten. "Let's say you were telling the truth, and I'm just spit-balling here, but why would all of the angels be thrown downstairs? Is the apocalypse starting? Because, buddy, things are doing just fine down here. You may be barkin' up the wrong tree." 

 

"Heaven's orders are absolute," he answered surely, but was instantaneously hit with a surge of doubt, as he still looked around the room, experience the feelings and colors like never before. There was aches and stings, drowsiness and hunger. He was here, sitting on this man's furniture, on their account, as were all of his family, wandering with lack of direction. "But, you are right. There has been a string of unanswered prayers in recent times."

 

"Why?"

 

"God has been absent." 

 

This took Dean for a mental whirl of questions, but what was certain: the recognizable pain that flashed in Castiel's eyes. "Eat up. We can figure something out."

**Author's Note:**

> • Thank you for reading, weary traveler! Comments of all lengths are appreciated. True feedback is welcomed, too! Let me know your thoughts on my writing style, word choices, syntax, description etc. etc.. But nonetheless, I hope you enjoyed! •


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